Only The Lonely
by Anna10
Summary: A joint project of post eps with soulofanangel, cataloguing the development of Carter and Abby's relationships through the whole of season 7, and maybe beyond. Carter’s POV.
1. Fear and Self Loathing in Chicago

**Explanation**: Ok, so, one day there were these two happenin' chicks, who, in a fit of boredom and "Hey, wow, they are repeating season 7 on British TV!"-ness, decided to embark on a fairly large project.

Basically, we are cataloguing season 7 (and possibly beyond), and the relationship that stirred between Carter and Abby through that, via the medium of post eps. Some are individual, some show their other relationships, some are them together, and some will be just weird, but what we're trying to do is make a series that shows the Carby magic weaving it's way into (our) hearts.  
I'll be doing Carters POV, and Charli (soulofanangel) will be doing Abby's. What follows is anyone's guess.  
We're starting with "Homecoming", because…umm, we are.  
**Disclaimer**: Carter's right here. Say hey to the people Carter. And wave! That's good. Umm, I mean, 'not mine'.

**Spoilers**: For "Homecoming".

**Summary**: (just in case you don't remember what happened in the actual episode, because I didn't totally until I re-watched it.)  
Basically, Carter-wise: he checked into Atlanta with Benton, who then left him, and Carter looked terrified, whilst kinda still denying he had a problem. Then the nurse (Margaret) introduced him to his first group therapy session. Months later, we see him talking to the leader and thanking him, and the next we see of him is on a plane back to Chicago, with a nasty beard and an equally annoying talkative man. Benton couldn't pick him up from the airport as planned, so he sends a med student. Carter walks off into the sunset to find his jeep.  
And that's about all you need.

**Authors Note**: Well, kinda covered that one. Except, this post ep takes place throughout various stages in time, all marked.  
Oh, and our post eps are meant to be read in tandem; while they are our own individual work, it makes more sense if you read them together, otherwise you may miss bits. Drop us a line, we're kind of friendly. ;o)  
**Thanks/recognition**: to Charli, meine Liebling and IAS and Lanie, as we're vaguely taking their 'joining-post-eps' idea, and pimping it for our own purposes. I promise no journals though, will leave that to the professionals. ;o)  
**Final piece of advice**: Get a cushion and a bar of chocolate. Not at all essential, but it may make the next five minutes or so more enjoyable.

**Fear and Self-loathing in Chicago.**

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

_Only the Lonely  
Know the way I feel tonight.  
Only the Lonely  
Know this feeling ain't right._

**'Only the Lonely (know how I feel)'**  ~ Roy Orbison.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Atlanta, May 

"I'm John Carter, and I'm an addict." 

The words have been steadily revolving around my head for an hour now, the product of boredom, self loathing and the fact that I'm at present forced to lie on an uncomfortable mattress and stare at a cracking cream ceiling, with hints of the beginnings of wood rot where it joins the wall in the far corner, and a few faint chips in the plaster, which if I squint hard enough at, make faces, all of them mocking me.

I see Mark, watching me steadily, but cautiously like I was a crazed maniac. Kerry, being the sensible, no-nonsense organiser, then shipping me off like cargo. Abby, sticking her nose in, trying to look concerned, though I don't know why. She thought I was a good doctor?

I was.

I screwed that one up.

The last face, largest of all, eyes on fire and mouth poised, ready to send a stern lecture, is Benton. Dr Benton, looking so fucking disappointed in me, because, in a stunningly dramatic way I failed him. 

God, the years I spent trying to earn his respect, to make him proud. He was my mentor in every way, and more than anything I wanted any recognition that I made a good doctor. I thought he did, but I don't think that applies any more. Not now he's seen me snivelling and crying, and frantically scrambling for any piece of reality I can hold onto. Then clenching my fist, the symbol of wounded pride, and hitting him square in the face.

That felt exhilarating in the moment my skin connected with his, the deep smack somehow satisfying, like proving I could still react, but now all I can feel is shame. Shame, humiliation at the miserable cretin I have become, like I am walking in the shadows of my own life. All this, and dread.

And terror.

My first meeting passed without incident. I sat, I introduced myself, and I was called upon to speak, to share my pitiful story with the group, nameless faces, a heroin addict, a cocaine abuser whose husband had left her and her small child to fend for themselves. A man who thinks so little of himself that he has surrendered to narcotics 4 times in the past two years. All of them stereotypes. Then me.

But I'm real.

I wanted to scream it, to write it with a marker pen across the whitewashed walls in dirty, large letters; _"It wasn't my fault."_

I want to blame them. To blame Paul Sobriki, for taking Lucy, my blood and my pride. To blame Abby, Abby for telling them. Her betrayal cuts me deeply, like a glinting knife, and I can't place why. She's just another face in the ER, another student, but in her I feel something, something sad and beautiful. On that rooftop before I lost so much, it was there. I **felt.** Not anymore. 

Do addicts get friends?

I wanted to scream this, to shout it, but I didn't, I swallowed hard, words fighting for prominence, but none escaping, and as hard as I tried to create them, they sunk. I just stood there, in awe, afraid, staring straight at the man ahead of me, barely lucid enough to understand what was being said. My mouth tasted of dry, dusky air, unable to breathe properly, saliva vacuumed out. Then the river inside me opened, and I told them, I told them all, about Sobriki, about Lucy, about the bitterness of Abby's infidelity.

And they listened. Some nodded, some stared ahead, some looked to (at) the ground uncomfortably, the truth of their situations painfully similar. And then something happened. I felt a release, a small, but struggling release, telling me that this was ok. That everything would be all right, because I was no longer one faithless man amongst blooming roses, I was with them.

With them, but not one of them, I remind myself.

But here in my room, the dim square cavern that is to be my home and my captor for ninety long days, here I am alone. Here my courage fails me and my resolution to get better slips away into the shadowed corner, out of my reach. 

I can feel hot sticky tears on my cheek, mingling with the cold sweat flowing from my brow, and covering my face, blurring it. Melting me into a different person. The blood in my veins runs freely now, all hints of toxin chased out, but the substance calls to me in low whispers across the room. I want a hit. I need a hit, I need it now, and the shivers and the sweat will pass, or so they tell me, but the desire won't.

What if it never does?

What if the craving keeps me as one of its servants, a skeleton only capable of doing it's bidding? I'm here, I can't have my hit, they have no drugs, but what happens when I'm working around my vice, using it, mixing with it. Will it torment me, laughing in my face like the visions skirting across the wall in front of me? Will it egg me on, a silent devil on my shoulder, watching and waiting until the time come that it can whisper a soft few traitorous words into my ear and watch me fall back from my precipice, impaled onto the rock below?

It's like a fever, like the deepest love you can imagine, but it's stronger, more powerful, and it doesn't judge or even venture comment, it's a silent partner in your muddled life. You crave it. You need it.

It makes you crawl to it, lowly and pitiful. Always watching. Watching the good doctor, the proud grandson, the loving friend you once were, now before it, begging pitifully for a release. It holds back, until you reach the very edge, intent on making you suffer a little more. Then it lets you take it, like a token, a prize, and for a few blissful moments you feel nothing, nothing but a release, and a reciprocal love, something that is yours.

Something that is mine.

My lips are dry, cracking under the humidity, sore chapped remnants of what were once blushing and moist, and my eyes are painful, the visions, the darkness and the exhaustion render me incapable of seeing anything properly. I close them, the darkness engulfing, like the only thought that runs through my head.

Do I even need to be here?

I tell myself I'm sick, I know I'm sick. I do. But these people aren't like me. There aren't, they can't be, and they never will be. They are junkies, addicts, no good stoners, they weren't stabbed, their friends didn't die and they never walked in my shoes. But, for whatever reason, they are here. They're here, and they're hurting, and it would be easy to imagine them just like me, with a history, problems that led them to temptation, to the outskirts, the dregs of society. But they are not me. I won't let them be. I'm different, and they'll see that.

They have to.

Sleep takes me, and I pray that she's quick and be done with it, but it is not to be; she is a merciless creature, and my slumber is a restless one, I toss, I turn, and I hit out at the wall in anger, lashing back at the faces, the voices which chronicle my failure. All that is left is to hope that they fade and let me be, but I trust little to hope.

_Atlanta/Chicago flight, September._

My eyes are flickered shut and my body shut down, attempting to block out the incessant chatter of the man next to me, but he continues unknowing, seemingly wanting to punish me for a crime I didn't even know I'd committed. His voice drones to a long hum, as I simply nod or shake my head at the right time. I let him believe I'm a teacher. It somehow sounds easier than my real profession. My mind leaves the seat and wanders across the ocean, thinking first of Chicago and the fate which awaits me. Will I have a job? A friend? Another chance?

They say they'll take me back, but will they? Can they work with an addict, someone who constantly tortures himself, who belongs everywhere and nowhere, who they will see only as a lesson to how men can fall? And I don't know if I want them to see me that way. 

It's a sobering and devastating thought that they may never see me as anything but a broken, wretched man. Three months, how much time, how much history has past since I left? I've healed, I feel it inside of me, and I'm anxious and terrified to return. But also excited. The moment I stepped on the plane I felt elation, a wonderful feeling of free air, and a fresh start.

Another chance.

Bored with the thoughts that have plagued me for the resolute months I just spent, my mind travels in the opposite direction, to Atlanta. Through the heavy doors and dark corridors of the centre; past Margaret at reception and on through to the lounge to my last meeting with the program leader. I told him I wouldn't let it beat me.

_"That's what I thought. The first three times."_

Until then, I didn't really consider the chance I might come back. In my drug wanting, sleepless dreams at the beginning I wondered how much of me would always remain an addict, but I was never intending to go back. I'm still not.

"So I said to her, I said…" Mr Talkative is still chatting animatedly, not even noticing that I haven't been listening to him for what my watch tells me is a full ten minutes. I briefly scan the vicinity, looking for a weapon but all I see are rows of seats, all full, and a magazine tucked into the pocket in front of me. Bringing my head back to rest on the seat, I reflect on whether a copy of InStyle could silence him, or how much general damage it could do. I've never been a violent man, but my last nerve is fragile, and I'd like to keep it pacified for the moment. 

He continues for a little while and I excuse myself, heading for the bathroom, and a much-wanted cigarette I have smuggled in my shirt pocket. Making my way through narrow aisles and past a variety of sleeping and vacant passengers, I glance back, half expecting the man to still be talking to me, but he seems to have moved onto his next prey, the heavily made up woman on his other side, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

The bathroom mirror greets me harshly; dimming my mood a little, staring back at me is a tired and pale face, and a scraggly beard. I splash my face with water. Gingerly stroking the end of my chin, I wonder what in the hell possessed me to grow a beard anyway, and set about finding a razor in my bag. New start, fresh face, no beard. Nothing connecting me to Atlanta. 

I'm going to do this right.

I stride more confidently back to my seat. "You shaved your…" the man exclaimed, motioning to my chin. I nod indulgently. This will be a long flight.

_County General, same day._

We arrive at County from the airport late into the night, to a chorus of brightly flashing police cars, all humming animatedly. I allow myself a smile. It's like I've never been away. From the outside the building looks lifeless, more movement and colour coming from the protests of the janitors, who I presume are on strike, waving banners and marching in the cold, determined. Inside, on closer inspection, people rush to and fro, gurneys and IV tubes almost flying through the air in a wash of dizzying movements, and I feel a pang of jealousy.

I want to be back, I want to work. But that will come soon enough, in a couple of days.

"You coming in?" the med student eagerly asks me, motioning towards the hospital.

"I'm just gonna get my jeep, and go home," I answer, too tired for pleasantries with the staff. My bed beckons me from here, and I eagerly await the soft, warm mattress that creates such a stark contrast with Atlanta's offerings. I thank him, and he nods and departs, skipping into the hospital with something that is almost glee.

I find my jeep exactly where I left it, patiently standing in the same spot. No one moved it. I'm glad of that, it's mine to drive, steady and faithful, and I fumble to find my keys, although I'm unsure of why they travelled with me to Atlanta. They fit easily and quickly, and I collapse into the seat, grateful and content, with only a small distance left to drive.

I begin my first trip on the roads of Chicago in a while, but find my jeep doesn't take me too my rented apartment; it takes me out of the city, to the large, stately house that marks my family's wealth upon Chicago. Two days since I called them, but seeing them is different. I wait outside at first. I should see them, I want to, but I'm afraid of what they'll think of me.

Motherly love I never got, a cold, hard fact I accepted, but I can't stand for them to think badly of me. Checking my watch, and seeing it's 10pm, I decide it's not too late to visit, and step up to the doors, knocking gently at first, then slightly more confidently. Alger answers the door, a surprisingly happy smile spreading across his face.

"Dr Carter," he intones, stepping back gracefully and beckoning me in. At the sound of my name, an elegant figure slides into the room, hands clasped and normally stern but kind features making way for a short grin.

"John!" she calls, waltzing over to me and taking my face in her hands, then kissing my cheek. "I thought you were back tomorrow."

"Got an earlier flight," I return the smile a little shyly, standing awkwardly in the hall. She watches me.

"Are you not staying?" she asks pleasantly, motioning to my jacket, and I take it off compliantly, hanging it on the rack. "Coffee," she continues almost

 normally, and glides through to the kitchen, me following slowly. "Your Grandfather is at a meeting, will you stay until he gets back?"

"I'm a little tired actually, I just wanted to…"

"We missed you," she says after a beat, pouring a generous amount of milk into my mug.

"I'm sorry."

"For wha-" she paused, and her face changed back to stern again. "I'm not saying taking drugs was the right choice, John," I feel my heart falling a little, in anticipation of her speech. "But you were stabbed, your friend died; this wasn't your fault, and you _will_ get better. Once you leave the hospital and start your own-"

Start my own practice, I finish silently for her in my head. "I'm going back to County," I tell her, running my finger round the edge of the mug almost nervously. "I have a meeting with Dr Greene and Dr Weaver in five days, to discuss coming back."

This suggestion is met with silent but very potent disapproval, but she seems reluctant to press me on it tonight, something which is even more uncomfortable than an argument, because I can see this subject being reserved until she can fully let loose the extent of her will on me. She simply nods and sips her coffee thoughtfully. "It's good to have you back," she finally says.

"Yeah," I reply flatly, partly out of tiredness, and she catches the uncertainty in my tone easily.

"John," she states pointedly, laying a warm hand on top of my own, cold, one. "Don't be ashamed. From here things get better." I wonder if she isn't ashamed of me because she believes that ER medicine drove me to the drugs, or out of a more genuine empathy, but I reach no conclusion. I'm just glad to be in a familiar place again. To find my feet.

~ * ~

Home again, in my own bed, and I've long been awake, but this time the feeling isn't unpleasant, it's a lot more hopeful. The four walls surrounding me are more meticulously painted than in my last room, and scattered pictures of memories are more inviting. 

I wonder where I'd be right now if I'd walked away from Dr Benton that haunting day in May. Or if Abby hadn't raised her suspicions with Mark. Would I be here? In a dark, lonely gutter somewhere, crawling towards dirty needles that lace the pavements of the downtown areas? Or maybe lying motionless on a park bench, the drugs running through my veins of a more potent, threatening form than just a painkiller. It's too much to worry about, but I realise now that Abby wasn't the vicious traitor in black, holding the knife, as I wanted to paint her to be, she was right.

I owe her; I guess she saved me.

I'll have to thank her for that one day.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

_Only the Lonely know the heartaches I've been through,  
Only the Lonely know I cry and cry for you  
Maybe tomorrow, a new romance  
No more sorrow, but that's the chance  
Only the Lonely._

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

**A/N**: Ok, so, there goes the first one. If you haven't already done so, read Charli's accompanying piece, "Temporary Arrangements". This is quite a big project, and it's kind of up to you, the kindly reader, should we continue or not??   
(We may continue anyway, but we'd like to know what you think, and reviews are great. The normal chocolate/cake/lollipops bribery for reviews is in operation. Grab 'em while you can.)


	2. A Little Less Scary

**Spoilers**: For "Sand and Water", this weeks episode of choice.

**Summary**: So, from Carters POV.  
He went into his first meeting, smiled, but generally didn't seem thrilled to be there. Met some coffee guy, who I think was called Brent (does anyone care?) and then spotted Abby sitting across from him. And thus the Carby began (ish.)  
Then, awkwardly bumped into Benton and had a meeting with Weaver and Mark to discuss coming back (Mark was **not** keen on the idea), and is told he can on certain conditions, he has to take certain drugs, and cant do traumas. He seems pleased.  
At the end, Abby comes into Doc Magoo's while he is eating. Using the Carter Eyes, and a lovely lopsided smile, he convinces her to be his sponsor. Well, he asks, and she says yes. But I'm sure you all know this. Or sort of remember.

**Author's note**: So, back again. This time with where it all began. We are sticking to what happened in season 7, so no A/U, just what went on, with a few added scenes etc.

**Thanks to**: TinyStar, starbright, Lesbiassparrow, Kenziegal and CARBYfan for the reviews, very much welcomed, and very lovely – lollies in the post, hugs delivered via my modem (umm, ish).  
Also to IAS and Lanie, for reading over, and, obviously, to Charli, the Dougal to my Father Jack. Or should that be the other way round? Anyone without knowledge of the fantastic Irish comedy "Father Ted", will be lost now. Ah well.

**A Little Less Scary**  

~ * ~ * ~ * ~  
_"All sin tends to be addictive,  
and the terminal point of addiction is what we call damnation."_

**W. H. Auden** ~ A Certain World.  
~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The church stands a little way back from the rest of the street, it has no graveyard or even grounds surrounding it, just a simple, small lawn in front of it sectioned by a path, and a large stone arched entrance hiding a worn wooden door. It's a surprisingly warm day for September, and the sun glows warmly over the roof, like some sort of holy light we sinners can only pray to be blessed with. I check the address in my hand, though I already know this is the right place, I've passed it tens of times before, although never with the intention of entering.

I don't particularly want to enter now, but I need to find a meeting, and I was told this was as good a place as any, small and friendly. There's a list running through my head; things I need to do, follow my steps like a good drug addict, find a sponsor to slap me on the wrist should I stumble on my path to recovery, and go to meetings, prove that at least I'm trying. I **am** trying.

So, I do this, I try not to worry about what the meeting with Weaver and Mark later today will bring, and concentrate on finding the hall. It's a small church, so it shouldn't be difficult, but somehow it is. I scan around me, but the street is mainly empty, not unusual for eight in the morning. Behind me two people are chattering quite loudly, and weave round me to enter the church, the brighter one I presume to be the more weathered congregant, a sturdy sponsor, her lips, though smiling, are set quite firmly, her mission clear, and her eyes house what is probably years of abuse.

The man with her looks more tired, and seemingly more susceptible to succumbing. He pauses just outside the door, glances at me awkwardly, and looks hesitant, until she sternly takes his hand and leads him in. Resigned, I leave my patch of sunlight and stroll towards the same opening, entering slightly timidly. This is the first meeting I've been to that is open; in Atlanta, they were all doctors, all fallen angels, people who the medical profession pushed that step too far.

What will I find here? Alcoholics, possibly drug addicts, although this is predominantly an alcoholics meeting. I think that's partly why I chose it, there seems less of a stigma attached to it, not an automatic vision of a no good stoner, drooling and crawling across cold, hard floors in search of a dirty needle. Maybe there is a stereotype for them, but it's not me, and I feel more comfortable with that.

Here there will be professionals, non-professionals, people living on the street. Will I blend in, or will they see me as the pretender I am? Can they see through a more peaceful exterior to this bloodied and bruised interior, housing demons and voices just like theirs? And if I can watch two people walk into this building and have an idea in my head of whom they are, how many of them are judging _me_? 

With one last deep breath, and thinking of the residency I have yet to complete at County, I step through, bumping into an amiable man named Brent, carrying a coffee machine and looking a little flustered, but smiling. I offer him help and follow him into the room, where I find more people than I expected, sitting in straight rows of seats, a wealth of different backgrounds all congregated under the same roof, with a similar goal to achieve. They are all listening to a woman at the stand, so we speak in careful whispers, and then I turn to find my place.

There are few spare spaces, scattered about, so I search out a spot, not too near the front, and slightly hidden behind a larger man, and sit amongst strangers, feeling lonely and lost. The speaker is reading through the steps slowly and purposefully, like a preacher, and twenty or thirty eager faces are watching her, listening, some nodding, some bowing their heads in sadness, failing in their quest. 

I know this speech, I've been through it so many times before, my mornings and nights are often plagued by the same twelve sentences, which now flowed freely and unapologetically through my mind at regular intervals. Bored, I tap out a tune on my leg, and my thoughts begin to wander, to plan what I need to say in my appointment today, what might encourage the hospital to ask me back, if indeed they want me. A large piece of me is scared, nervous, suspecting that they won't see me as the same person, the slightly goofy, always eager and well meaning med student they groomed. A sick feeling in my stomach begins to swell.

I tune back in to hear she has only reached step number seven, "to humbly ask him to remove our shortcomings…" Humbly. To humbly ask him to resolve my sins and errant ways. This feels more like a bible studies class than a meeting, and I fleetingly wonder where atheist alcoholics go, where those with no religion take their solace and test their will. I glance around the room, cataloguing faces, remembering them for later. I home in on one; short brown locks tucked behind her ears and a leather jacket, looking younger then the rest of her row. Strangely familiar, but probably similar to a thousand women I've past in the street over the last year or two.

Perhaps she's bored too, because her head begins to turn, scanning her group and turning to me. As her profile begins to appear, I recognise her, shocked, and slightly disbelieving. Abby? The Abby who turned me in, and saved my life, an alcoholic? Well, I guess she knew what she was talking about. 

I was not expecting that.

She looks a little shocked to see me, then offers a sad but genuine little smile, before turning back to the front. I follow suit, and curse and praise my luck all at the same time. I flick eyes back over to her again, appearing engrossed in the steps, her previous gaze hard to read. Was that smile out of pity, or solidarity?

Next we listen to Terry, an ex schoolteacher from Baltimore, who'd been summarily fired, and then lost a wife and daughter, all due to alcohol. Same story, different voice. Mary has long blonde hair, icy yet still friendly blue-grey eyes and a very elegant demeanour. She seems different, a success story, she doesn't blame her drinking on anything, offers no attempt at excuse, just a short realisation that it was her who made herself the person she was, and it was her who had had to reinstate herself back to the person she used to be. 

A few more people share, but I don't volunteer, a little afraid and reluctant also, so I sit and listen, but little of it absorbs into me, I've heard it all before, and after a while the faces become awash, the same people blending into one, the same problem. But I already know the answer.

The end comes, and I stand to look for Abby, but the man next to me obscures my view, and by the time I side step him, she has disappeared from view, maybe embarrassed, maybe reluctant to hash out her previous life, or maybe still appalled by my behaviour a few long months ago. I can't choose which, I'm not sure the answer wouldn't hurt me, and I also can't shake off the slight curiosity running through me. She'll share when she's ready.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Gazing out of the window from my vantage point in Doc Magoo's is when I see her next, hours after our initial reunion. She's a small figure in the expanse of the night, dodging a puddle and a barrage of raindrops, and finally making it to the warmth and dryness.

The same huddled figure slumps through the door and shuffles across to the counter, mumbling something about a coffee I don't really need to hear. Something masochistic in me makes me call out to her, thinking maybe I might be able to try and fix this one. She turns, and looks at me indescribably. Happy to see me? Probably not.

"Hey."

"Hey." She pauses for a moment, but only a moment, and walks over. My previous worry that I appalled her slips a little further back in my mind, and we make small talk about when I got back, what I'm doing now. All ordinary, polite things, but with her I don't find it as boring or irritating as with the tens of people who've asked me these questions in the last few days.

People have been nice, surprisingly so, particularly at County this morning, with only a few awkward silences. Notably with Dr Benton, and particularly with Mark. Somehow, I don't get the feeling Mark wants me back. I **know** he doesn't, not yet. It was in his discomfited demeanour in the meeting, his hesitancy to look at me, maybe for fear he'd catch the drug seekers plague, and the uncomfortable tones he talked to me in.

I should be grateful, I am grateful, that they want me to start working again, but I see a long and unfriendly road ahead of me, and I feel these drugs in the bottle in my pocket, drugs to keep me away from drugs. And I don't need them, I'm doing this on my own, but I have to take them when they tell me to, give urine samples when they want them. I feel like a leper.

Not with Abby. Maybe it's because now I know she's been through something, something similar. Maybe a secret as dark as mine, maybe less dangerous, but she's still here and determined, something you can see from her face. I wonder about the nurse's outfit she wears, and ask her, and she deposits that she was suspended. I find myself feeling bad for her, she was a good student, although in Malucci she never got the resident she deserved.

As natural as the conversation feels, no false sympathy or over-spoken sadness from her over my 'situation', there's a residual awkwardness, and I can feel what's coming. I need to do it, but I'm not sure how to. The waitress brings over her coffee, giving me a chance, and I take it, putting it on my tab and motioning for her to sit down, which she does.

"I never thanked you."

"For what?" she leans back, waiting, but keeps interested eyes loosely on me, although I don't feel as uneasy as I should.

She knows the reason, but I tell her anyway, because she understands as well as I'm beginning to that it's not about the thought, or the apology, it's about me saying it. "You know, you might have saved my life. If you hadn't stopped me when you did…I could be dead now." Not as eloquent as I intended, but it seems enough, and she smiles.

A bad idea is already forming in my head as she reaches over and asks for a drag of my cigarette, which I oblige her. A very bad, but strangely tempting, idea. I watch her with interest, sucking slowly on the end of the cigarette, then blowing out in short, steady breaths, smoke dancing round her. I smile. 

This woman will be my sponsor.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Today was definitely not as sunny as yesterday. Or as enticing, but it has been more tiring. I had to drag myself out of my bed this morning, all to do nothing. Again. The only thing that's stopping me from running back there now and attending a meeting tomorrow is the fact that I have to meet Abby here. But, then again, I guess that's what sponsors are for.

But today feels uplifting; despite the mingling grey skies, darkening to accommodate the night and releasing little droplets around me, and the fact that she's late. We agreed to meet earlier than needed anyway and right now it seems that it was a good choice. Seems that she could be a good choice too, this feels promising, and I'm so glad for a friend and a sponsor I know right now, not some older man, or young idealistic like Tony, who thinks that being an alcoholic was "the best thing that happened to me, got my life back together."

Our first official meeting, and she's late, but I don't mind.

Honestly, I thought she'd take longer to convince, to agree to this, but it seems buying coffee and flashing what I hope were puppy dog eyes did the trick, a strategy I'm going to use next time I need something. Across the street I see her, half running, half walking, and as she gets nearer, I see an apologetic smile. "Dr Carter," she begins then stops, giggling a little. "Oops. Umm, Carter, John, what do I call you?" she asks quickly, screwing up her nose and looking puzzled.

I laugh with her, looking briefly to the ground and shaking my head. "Either. Joh-" I begin to speak, but she interrupts me. 

"Carter it is." I can't help but smile. My parents may as well have christened me Carter and been done with it, no need for the 'Jonathan Truman' at all. Or named me 'Drug addicted failure'. Ah, the wonder of hindsight. Before I really know what I'm thinking, I wonder where they are right now, which part of the world, but I quickly remind myself that I don't care, because they don't. Two phone calls since my stabbing, clearly not the badge of overly concerned parents.

I must have zoned off, because she 's trying to catch my attention, and I tune back in to her. "I brought you something," she smiles nervously. "You know, this being new for me and all." Reaching into her pocket, she produces two cigarettes, and I look puzzled. She hands one to me, and lights up her own, passing the lighter to me. I gratefully accept, and she leans back against the wall, staring across the street, inhaling and exhaling small clouds of smoke. "I wanted to meet early so I could have a smoke beforehand," she offers by way of explanation. "It's like a ritual for me."

For a moment all that's between us are foggy wisps and a strong smell of ash. "Aren't I supposed to be relinquishing vices?" I ask, slightly amused. She turns to me with a wicked grin. 

"One at a time," she answers, grinding her 'vice' out with the heel of her shoe and motioning towards the door, waiting for me to follow. I give up my cigarette too quickly for my liking, and trudge to my fate, resigned.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~  
"So, how many are you up to now?" Meeting over, we filter out in clusters, mainly of two, but some people come in threes, a lot come alone. She asks with interest, but not too much, and looks up to me, waiting for her answer.

"In Chicago? 15. One for each day I've been back. Fun, huh?" She rolls her eyes, and cracks into a smile. I like her smile; it's genuine, friendly. Reaching back into her pocket for another cigarette, she offers me one, but I decline. I don't even really like smoking; I'm not entirely sure why I do it.

"You're getting there," she offers, and pauses, searching for words. "Uh - slow but steady?"

I nod. I wonder how much I can ask about her. How much she'll tell me. I know very little about her life as an alcoholic, or her recovery. Of course, I've only really _known_ her for a day or two, but she already knows so much about me, and it gives her a head start I'm not sure I want her to have. But I don't want to be nosy either. "How often were you here before it became part of your duty?" I finally settle on. "Duty to me," I qualify quickly for her.

She laughs. "Not as often as I should have been"

"Wow," I deadpan. "I chose a dedicated sponsor."

"I told you you should go for _anybody_ else," she points out, grinning at me and dodging a child who rushes past us on roller blades.

"Didn't want anybody else." That doesn't sound like I intended, so I quickly add to it in a mock whining tone. "I would have had to talk to other people, I wouldn't have known them, it would have been awkward...."

She tells me she doesn't mind doing it, and I believe this, because if she hadn't wanted to, she would have declined. "I'm not sure how good a sponsor I'll make." She pauses. "It's hard talking to people at these meetings, but everyone's friendly"

"Do you know anyone else here?" 

"No. You coming saves me from having to be on my own," she jokes.

"Glad I could be of service," I joke weakly, then glance across the street, feeling a sudden dryness in my mouth. "You want a coffee or something?" I ask hopefully, reluctant to go home and sit on my own for the rest of the night, in the boredom my life has become since my return, whilst everyone else works. Next week can't come quickly enough; practicing medicine has never been as exciting to me.

"Sure. As your sponsor, I feel I should buy it though…"

I don't argue with her, I get the feeling it would be futile anyway, and she seems perfectly happy. "I can go with that."

I nod to Doc Magoo's and we enter, sliding into a booth, me near the window and her sitting nearer the aisle, though I'm not sure why she does this, or why I notice. Running a hand over my forehead I yawn, if I look anything like I did when I left this morning, I must be a tired mess, with charcoal like streaks blurring under my eyes like kohl eye shadow. 

I'm not sleeping properly, not yet.

"You look like shit. When do you start back at County?" She's direct; I'll give her that.

"Two days, and counting. But then another five years before they let me work on anything more urgent than UTI's and nausea." A nagging voice in my head and her subtle facial expression tell me I should be a lot more grateful, but I can only think of the boredom that next week and it's 'non-emergencies' medicine could bring. It will be more interesting than lounging around watching trash TV, something I've always hated yet have come to appreciate over the last few weeks, but only by a narrow margin. I shrug self pityingly, and take a sip of coffee.

"They wouldn't want a resident who couldn't treat anyone," she points out seriously, catching onto my self pity. A little of what I think is concern flashes over her features. "You having a bad day?"

Bad day? I fiddle with my coffee cup. She's my sponsor; it's part of the description to listen to me vent against the world, I think. I don't want to be melodramatic though, pity's something I don't really want from her, and so I decide just on the truth. "I'm having a bad month."

She fixes me in an intense stare. "Adjusting back to reality harder than you expected?" It's more of a statement than a question, but she makes no attempt to speak, so I answer her.

"Than I expected?" I shake my head. I half expected returning from Atlanta to collapse into a heap in a darkened and forgotten corner of Gamma's house and stay there. "No. Than I **wanted**, yes." Because the fear that anything I do from now on will be tainted with my previous failure is still very much there. But this is more of a fifth date revelation; I chuckle to myself. I try to elaborate, gesturing with my hands. "It's like this...big mistake that I made, but I'm trying to make up for, but it's always going to...be there. Can't get rid of it."

"It never goes away." She looks wistfully out onto the street, observing the quiet, and eyeing a couple arguing in the middle of the pavement. She turns back, her face sadder, but more serious. "But it does get easier to live with," she offers as her glimmer of light at the long addiction tunnel. 

It all sounds too cliché, but I need to believe something. "That a promise?" It's light and amused in tone, but she seems to find the deeper meaning without even having to search, and smiles back into my eyes.

"Yeah." She breathes in the scent of strong coffee, which seems to empower her. "You realise that, sure, you might be an addict, but that's not all you are, not all you _can_ be. It's a part of who you are, but not a limitation – only if you let it be."

Wise words. The eye contact is starting to make me nervous, and I avert my eyes, nod tightlipped, and then check my watch. "I have to sleep. You want a ride home?"

She shakes her head. "You live the other way. I'll get the El." Pausing to reach across for her bag, she waits for me to stand, then follows suit. "You want to meet before the meeting tomorrow?"

It's freezing outside now, cold enough that our breaths make little clouds in the air, and I find myself clenching fingers into a fist to partly shield them. "I'll walk you to the El," I offer, I've really got nothing better to do, but I don't volunteer this. I walk her as far as the steps, then stand at the bottom, a little lost, and watch her ascend. I ask if she wants me to wait for her, but the distant unhappy rumblings of a train answer my question, and I lift my hand in a slight wave. "I'll meet you outside tomorrow," I tell her with a smile, and she nods, then is gone, leaving me and my thoughts to wander Chicago for yet another night.

I won't go home yet; I won't go home until I have to, because I need to do **something**, even if it is just aimless walking and incessant thinking. A glance at the hospital continues to show me that life is going on without me, and I stay there only for a moment, enough time to wonder why I torture myself like this. Two more days, and I'll be back.

But for today I feel more upbeat than I should, my ponderings become more lighthearted, less anxious, and I find them wandering to Abby. There is something about her, though I can't put my finger on it, which makes me glad she's in my life. 

Making it all a little less scary.

**A/N**: If you haven't read Charli's brilliant part, please do so.   
Again, reviews are very helpful in judging what you all think (well, the only way, because I can't do telepathy, though Charli claims she can.) Any criticism and/or suggestions for future post eps are very much welcome, and it only take a sec to review. If you're feeling nice. Or even if you're not. ;o)

  
  



	3. Finding My Feet

**Spoilers**: For "Mars Attacks".

**Summary**: Well, where to start?   
It's Carter's first day back, some people are happy to see him, some overexcited nurses hug him, but some (mainly Finch, also Romano) aren't so pleased. He gets stopped by the guard because his ID is outdated and learns they'd emptied his locker, finds out Chen is pregnant, Mark and Elizabeth's double set of good news, and Dave has dyed his hair. Ahem.  
He gets the minor patients, because they won't let him work trauma or use *any* instruments, he bitches about this, but gets nowhere, has a very smelly patient, and then the cutest child in the world (Dennis), who has a UTI. He bonds with said child, and because they are hit with a big trauma, helps with the nurses' jobs, ie: cleaning up pee. Then they go throw paper planes off the roof.  
Finally, his shift is over, and Mark asks for a urine sample. He looks stung, can't pee, and then does. Finito.

**Disclaimer**: Hands up who thinks I own 'em? Lady in the first row, gentleman near the back…Umm, I mean, "Not Mine".

**Author's Note**: See end. Song stolen is by Gary Jules. I don't think the song is _entirely_ used in the context it was written here, but I like it. And umm, mucho thanks to the usual people, who I could name, but have done so already in previous bits. Everyone who reviewed. Love to IAS, LS and Jen (who may or may not be alive) for reading through this oh-so-long-ago, and Kitty, who I didn't let read this oh-so-long-ago, but will thank all the same ;o).   
Mucho love to Charli. Mwah.

Finding My Feet 

****

~ * ~ * ~  
_All around me are familiar faces,  
Worn out places, worn out faces,  
Bright and early for the daily races,  
Going nowhere, going nowhere._

Hide my head I wanna drown my sorrow,   
No tomorrow, no tomorrow.

Gary Jules ~ Mad World  
~ * ~ * ~

It's dark here, biting and pitch black, the streets largely empty but for a few stray people; some drunk, some finishing equally long shifts, and others with nowhere else to go. All but the last category knows what they're doing, where they're going; they walk past, quickly and purposefully, like I wasn't there. Look right through me.

Because the last category _is_ me. 

I know I'm nothing to them, that I wouldn't matter to them were I a modern day saint, they'd still bypass me in the same manner, but it still hurts, because I'm not sure if I'm ever going to lose the nagging feeling that this is who I am now, that bowed heads and blank faces is the best I will ever get.

My footsteps are small droplets on a street which I'm sure has seen many of the same, all day, everyday, nothing remarkable about them, or the slightly sharp sound they make each time they connect with the pavement. Just footsteps, each one lonely. The charcoal shadow I cast against the wall, slightly obscured and elongated is neither unusual nor remarkable; it's just…there.

And I wonder if there's a point, and if so, when do I get to find out what it is?

Today was successful, I guess.  I completed my shift, I did everything they asked, mostly with a false smile plastered across my face like a bad painting, but at the end of it, I felt empty. I thought I'd feel something else, **anything** else but apathetic.

It could be that I'm tired. That in the morning, I'll wake up; go to another meeting, and feel somehow different, better. I'm standing still, against the cold hard wall of some type of shop, one I must have walked past so many times, but never taken an interest in. I examine it. It's a small grocery store, the little white lights inviting, dancing happily and illuminating a largely empty interior, spare a few sleepless customers and a stoical assistant, dreaming of better places.

There's a bar opposite too, but that I had noticed. It's inviting in a different way to the store, dim inside, brimming with the sort of misery you always find in late night bars; little hope, lots of uncertainty, yet it is so tempting, to walk in, to order shot after shot of foreign unpronounceable spirits amongst total strangers until someone needs to call me a cab home and I collapse in a heap on a well worn carpet, or a cold merciless floor.

But if I'm honest, it's not alcohol I want to save me. It's something even more forbidden, and it still calls to me. Only at nights, but it calls for me, a happy dancing face that whispers into my ear and asks that I use it. Just a little fix, one to take the pain away. Never at work, never in the hospital, but at home, at home where it doesn't affect my judgement or make me weak. Where it would be okay to give in. At home where it soothes me to sleep. I've ignored it thus far. 

But it's getting louder.

I try to pretend, I've tried to pretend all day, all last week that I'm happy, I'm doing everything right, I'm getting on with life and all the harsh boundaries that suddenly surround me like a particularly vicious form of barbed wire, but I'm not. I don't even know whether the belief I have that I'll do this is enough. I was so sure it was, I spent the last week convincing myself that if I just got back to work, everything would be magically better, and I'd be cured of this impenetrable disease I've been infected with, but in truth, I don't know what's me and what isn't anymore, where I end and where everything else starts.

I know that what was me wouldn't be like this. And I know, that somewhere deep down I imagined County being boring in my absence, imagined the place standing quite still for three months, without changing or caring to, just waiting for me. And I think that part of me wishes it had stood still, and had missed me, though I'm beginning to realise most of it may not have given me a second thought, which is sad. 

Because in those months, even in my haunted, drug craving spells, it was **all** I thought about. 

Now, Mark and Elizabeth are engaged and living together. Deb is pregnant, and blooming. Dave looks…well, his hair looks nasty, but he's changed too. Not substantially, but he's changed, and moved forward, and here stands me; still, unmoving and lost.

The door is opening, and some people topple out, alone, single, without so much as another person to prop them up. I think that is maybe where I belong. I'm marked now, and today proved that some labels you don't just shake off. The nurses greeted me happily, and I felt that it was going to be all fine, all right, but then reality hit me, and the fears that have been roaming through my head recently weren't as misplaced as I'd previously convinced myself. Cleo, Romano, they looked at me like some small bug. Romano doesn't surprise me, he looks at everyone like a small bug, and that's if you're one of the fortunate. Cleo Finch; that stung, it stung like I've never felt before.

Then there's Weaver and Mark, who wouldn't so much as let me use tweezers to pick splinters from a patient's ass. Whose faith I know I tested, but I wish they'd look past all this and see me. I'm still here, still fighting to be something again. Jumping up and down and waving madly, but to no avail, because no one sees me, and no one cares to. Welcome to the new world John. You'll find your seat two rows from the back, where the rest of the scum are relegated.

With a deep and powerful breath, cool air stinging my unaccustomed lungs, I walk straight past the bar, refusing to glance inside, refusing to smell the liquor on the lips of the building's inhabitants. Because I have to.

Because the alternative is scarier than I can begin to imagine.

Because I'll prove myself to them yet, and I'll show that I'm not some stereotypical addict with a constant threat of relapse.

The rest of the way home I try to concentrate on the positive aspects of my day. There are none. I sigh at my own pessimism, which used to be deeply hidden under layer upon layer of 'the world could be a worse place!' mantras, and pushed to the bottom of my mind. Now darkness seeps through those layers, wilting and killing as it travels, until the hope is so far hidden I can barely remember its taste, no matter how desperately I want to.

I try to think harder. The warm welcome I got. The people who were happy to see me, even Dave with his awful yellow hair. Abby joining with me in my whining misery. I missed her the past few days, she's been busy, I guess, but she promised to join me tomorrow morning, bright and early with the other victims for a rousing round of 'Woe is me, I faced the darkness, but I saw the light'. I resent the implication that it's that easy.

I push the last thought back out. Positivism. That was the hoop I was aiming for. Dennis. He was an inspiration. So young, totally paralysed from the waist down, yet facing everything, even the most embarrassing of moments, with a grace and an upbeatness that I can't even begin to describe. Without so much as a 'why me?' or a tirade of expletives at God.

He was stoical about all of it, and he remembered to take joy in the simple things, something that we all lose as we grow up, some quicker than others.

That makes me smile. A small smile, which creeps wider as I remember throwing paper planes from the roof and watching them sail down to the road below. Simple. And for that moment, I was happy, happy just watching them, watching how happy he was.

Watching the light in his eyes when the first plane just kept flying and flying, with no signs of giving in to gravity. It was soothing, and it helped me forget. I'm going to have to coerce all my future child patients to make planes and throw them with me. 

And before I realise it, I'm home. The door greets me with it's usual indifferent creaking, the room the same as I left it, unchanging and comforting. I consider making a coffee, but every muscle in my body implores me not to, and I turn my attention to my bed. Only I don't quite make it. Instead I feel the uninviting springs in my couch as my legs give way underneath me, the cushions the only thing in the way of me sprawling undignified on the floor. The last thing I feel is a gentle thud as my cheek connects with the fabric.

~ * ~ * ~

Abby's unusually happy at the moment. Her face is radiating a little, no, a lot. I noticed that this morning when she met me outside the meeting without complaining about the masochistic time of the morning or the awful coffee they serve.

Now we're hiding outside the ER on our break, huddled near each other in a weird human wind break formation, which is actually of little use, but I don't think either of us wants to admit defeat. And she's still glowing, although she hasn't mentioned any reason for it. In the little time I've known her, I've noticed that there aren't many things that elicit this sort of reaction, and I wonder. I guess she could have met somebody. She hasn't said anything, but there's no reason why she would say anything to me about that, our conversations are many and varied, but, other than her recovery, we talk more about me, not her.

Never mentioned family, except one mention of her mother followed by a berating silence, and she swiftly moved the conversation on. But, then again, if her mother's anything like mine, I understand why she doesn't want to bring her up. Occasionally she mentions Richard, but only to support arguments that marriage is a curse, or when she's particularly void of caffeine and needs something to take her anger out on…

I don't know why I'm even wondering about this. It doesn't affect me, it's just nosiness.

But I think it must be a man. 

"2 GSW's coming in, ETA 5 minutes," Luka's Croatian lilt interrupts the comfortable silence between us, and I groan inwardly. This call is for Abby, not me. I'm longing for the day when I can treat a trauma again. I politely excuse myself before it's made painfully obvious that I'm not needed, but I notice that little glimmer in her eyes again as I head for the doors.

Luka? Abby and Luka? I have to laugh, I don't think the monotony of my life has led me to seeing things just yet. Glancing back they're standing awaiting the ambulance, but a distance apart from each other, and certainly not stealing glances or caught in a compromising tryst. He doesn't see me, but Abby does, and offers a small conciliatory smile, before the lights and ever nearing noise shake her into movement, and all thoughts become that of how to help the patient. I know the drill.

At least I hope I remember that much. 

~ * ~ * ~

Her figure stands out against the deep mahogany recesses of the room, and the lines upon 

lines of spiral bound book and papers, all immaculately ordered and neatly placed, without even a hint of untidiness. This room brings back memories, memories of when I used to come here and hide, lounging on the softly padded red velvet chair in the corner with a medical journal, or some article from one of my father's magazines, safe from the world, the world safe from me.

It was always her favourite room as well as mine, we had an understanding of silence in here, not out of unkindness, but necessity, we each agreed that reading was best done in total silence, and it was a rule to be abided by everyone, including my mother; who frequently disobeyed it, much to our joint annoyance.

"We haven't seen you for a while," she notes as I step inside, a bland statement, but behind it lies a hint of warmth, and her lips curl into a slight yet elegant smile. I mimic it. She's sitting in her library, leather bound book on her lap, yet it doesn't seem like she's particularly engrossed in it, almost welcoming my arrival as an excuse not to read it.

She begins to stand to greet me, but I motion for her to stay seated, and walk over instead, taking the footstool next to her. "How've you been John?" she asks, and for the first time I see the wrinkled lines of her face, framed with coiffed white hair, paint a picture of concern. And I don't like her being worried about me, but at the same time it's comforting, because the only maternal love I've ever received has been from her.  

I should feel mad that the position is forced on her due to my own lousy parents, but as time goes on, the bitterness towards my own mother softens, because if I'm honest I'd rather pretend this woman was my mother, not a generation older.

"I'm good," I swallow. I'm not entirely sure why I'm here; I just couldn't handle another long night alone, with nothing but the silence, occasionally punctured by the colourful sounds of the couple in the apartment next to mine fighting out their differences, and never resolving them. "I'm good. I'm going to the meetings daily," I add, for lack of things to say, and also because I think it might make her proud of me, as I so badly want her to be. Just like she used to be.

"That's wonderful," she states, another glimmer of a smile flashing over her features, eyes quietly sparkling an icy blue, something which always scared Bobby a little when we were younger, but which I always found entrancing, a sort of elegant and stern beauty about them, set back from people, but with none of the coldness that others saw. They always amazed me. "And have you met any," she pauses, seemingly unsure of the wording to use, "friends?"

I laugh, and she frowns slightly, but I recover quickly. "I met a woman." The frown turns into more of a scowl, and again I'm forced to correct myself, babbling slightly. "Not a…A friend, well, I knew her before, she works at the hospital, but she's from the meetings too…she agreed to be my sponsor. You know, someone who-"

"I'm not so decrepit as not to know what a sponsor is John," she reminds me politely but firmly. "And I'm glad." She seems genuinely interested, something so small, but it makes me feel wanted, loved, and I feel less alone all of a sudden. 

"What's her name?" 

I smile, an image of her mid eye roll on a cigarette break creeping into my head. "Abby. Abby Lockhart. She was a med student, but she failed tuition payments, and now she's a nurse in the ER-" I stop on catching the slight but noticeable change in her demeanour as I exposit this information, and backtrack a little. "Her ex-husband was supposed to pay, she's a great person," I add pointlessly, and her face returns to normal, although I'm not sure if this is purely indulgence, nodding at me to continue.

I shrug. "That's about it. We go to the meetings, I've been going every morning before my shift, and we talk, it's…good to have somebody who knows what you're talking about."

She nods in agreement, then winces at a sudden clattering from downstairs. "That'll be your grandfather," she offers, half amused, half annoyed. "He has developed a certain penchant for supper at this time of night. And he invariably breaks something," she adds, rising resignedly and resting her book back on the small table beside her. I assume it'll stay there and gather dust for some time to come.

I follow her down to the kitchen, where my grandfather stands, bent over and scrambling to pick up a few metal pans he appears to have knocked from the rack above him, and can't conceal my chuckle, at both him, and the looks Gamma is shooting him.

"Ah, John!" he begins warmly, shaking my hand, an old, formal tradition which has never died with him. "I was sorry to miss you last time you visited."

I nod. "It's good to see you."

"How are things going?" he asks. I marvel at his ability to put a serious drug abuse problem down under 'things', but his pleasant demeanour makes it obvious he means no offence, I think he's just a little unsure how else to broach it. The frequent feeling that I've let them down returns briefly, but I shake it back to the recesses of my mind, determined not to let it ruin another night.

"Very well," I answer, with a reassuring nod and a smile. "I started back at the hospital yesterday…" to my left, Gamma bristles slightly, and an unreadable look crosses his face, but he alters it quickly.

"I know; I was surprised it was so soon. Didn't you want to take some time off?"

I shake my head. "Just wanted to get back to normal. They're starting me off slowly, only minor patients, a few at a time, but everyone's been…great," I finish, cringing internally at my slight lie, but wanting to paint them a better picture than treating rash victims and mild cuts.

He nods again, and Gamma opens her mouth to say something, presumably something to dissuade me from ever going back to the hospital, but she shuts it again, undoubtedly storing the comment for another time.

"And are you coping on your own?" he asks.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Neither look convinced, and I fear this may turn into a repeat of our two conversations last week.

"Would you like anything John, something to drink?" I accept a coffee from her warily, and she busies herself making it, making small talk along the way about Mr Westley's granddaughter, who's around my age, and for someone who didn't want me seeing any women a few moments ago, she waxes poetic about this girl, a vision in blonde curls, blue eyes and the well brought up manners of the Chicago upper class. I try my best to remain neutral and interested, but end the conversation unimpressed.

She shifts slightly into a discussion of the latest exploits of a less well brought up upper-classer, which interests me more, and I'm still sitting there two hours and three coffees later, a message to the broken and sad people everywhere, with my grandparents at 1 in the morning, actually feeling better than I have in a long time.

"It's late," she finally notes, with what I think is some satisfaction. I see where this is going. Maybe I saw a long time ago, but wished it away, and I haven't got the energy to fight it anymore. "It must get lonely in your apartment, just by yourself," she continues passive aggressively.

It does.

"And there's a meeting near here I think." She glances over to me, tentatively, but firmly. She's been doing her research.

"I'm happy where I am," I begin, somewhat unconvincingly, and her lips set in an almost perfectly straight line. Grandpa looks as though he's going to say something, but she cuts him off with a wave of her hand.

"Your apartment's not even in that good an area," she continues with the assault, the same speech I get each time I come here. "Here's nearer the hospital, and I don't understand why you pay money to rent somewhere like that."

"When I could stay here?"

She looks a little hurt. "When you could stay here, John. It might even help your recovery if you're not on…your own," she finishes slightly guiltily, but still firm. I feel like I've been hit with a sledgehammer.

"On my own," I repeat dully, well aware of the connotations of those words, and painfully aware of the fact that she thinks I might 'slip up' again. My own grandmother.

"I, **we**, are just concerned John. You could stay here a little while, until you find your feet."

I want to argue, my mouth opens and closes several times in a silent and useless protest, but I'm too tired, and she knows this, the barely there smile tracing the lines of her face, and the gentle hand that cups mine, so tightly gripping onto my mug, then gradually releasing under her own.

"Your room's here. At least stay the night," she implores, magnanimous in her success, and without any further hint of victory. I nod, eyes blinking, raw and tired, and they both smile. I stand and turn to wash out my cup. "I'll do that," she offers, taking it from me.

I kiss her on the cheek, and nod to Grandpa, before setting off up the stairs, each step a heavier one than the last, but at least with a destination in mind, which is more than I can say for the last few weeks. I get the distinct feeling that I'll be staying here longer than one night.

And I don't know whether to be pleased about that or miserable.

**A/N**: Apologies for this being so late, but exams and other life matters have (annoyingly) called. We promise to be more prompt with the next one.   
If you haven't already, go read Charli's accompanying piece, "New Phases, Old Faces. It's a mini masterpiece ;)  
Reviews are loved, as I crave improvement. Plus I'm not especially sure about this offering, due to Gamma, who is difficult for me to write. Ah, Gamma…


End file.
